


you'll meet me halfway

by dreamer89



Series: slytherin goals [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Canon Compliant, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, F/F, Friendship, Gen, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts Inter-House Friendships, Hufflepuff Pride, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, LGBTQ Female Character, Personal Growth, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-War, Redemption, Self-Acceptance, Slytherin Pride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22178611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamer89/pseuds/dreamer89
Summary: Tracey has developed a reputation for being the antithesis of cheerfulness and kindness, but when everything changes and she returns to re-do seventh year, a few Hufflepuffs decide befriending her would be a worthy challenge.
Relationships: Tracey Davis & an army of Hufflepuffs, Tracey Davis/Megan Jones (Harry Potter)
Series: slytherin goals [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1601380
Comments: 3
Kudos: 32





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I've tried to be totally canon compliant, but I know JKR has said later that Tracey was a half blood but if it ain't in the books, it doesn't count for this work, alright?

Tracey Davis was known in her House as the ice queen, the chief workaholic, the pessimist, and (on her better days) the voice of reason. It started virtually as soon as she was Sorted. When the other first-years recoiled from the Bloody Baron’s first appearance, Tracey didn’t even flinch. “Cor blimey, I’m _so_ terrified,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

Second year when people were losing their minds over the “enemies of the heir” message, Tracey just pointed her wand at the wall, muttered a spell, and the tip of her wand turned purple. “It’s only animal blood, pull yourselves together,” she said. “What? I read loads of Auror novels,” was her response to their questioning looks. She was right, of course, and it irked her that the teachers didn’t do more to shut down her peers’ tendencies towards exaggeration. 

Tracey spoke up to the prefects at the start of third year, convincing them to switch to more sophisticated passphrases. Because honestly, “pureblood” was the most moronic idea for a Slytherin password she had ever heard of besides “password.” 

She outright refused to go to the Yule Ball, what was she supposed to do? Confess to Snape that she fantasised about snogging that Hufflepuff girl who had become rather fit over the summer? Since her Head of House himself couldn’t even get out of the event, she was forced to attend but spent the entire night sulking at a corner table.

Fifth year came, and she was the one who snuck into the choir practice room and composed the tune of “Weasley Is Our King” on the piano while Pansy and Draco were writing the lyrics. She found it rather satisfying how much it seemed to rattle Weasley on the pitch. Later in the year, Tracey’s career advice session consisted of her saying, “I’m best at Arithmancy, but my parents want me to go into the Ministry, so consider the matter closed for discussion,” crossing her arms, and staring at the wall behind Snape for the rest of the allotted time. 

When Rita Skeeter came looking for material in sixth year, Tracey was approached. It seemed she was expecting a Pansy clone, but that certainly wasn’t what she was going to get. “Of course Dumbledore is an idiot, but do you know what’s daft _and_ dangerous? This school and everyone in it. I fucking hate this place. Now, I am busy; leave me alone.” Rita never asked her for a quote again. 

Tracey’s attitude towards life, and the audacity of it all, became legendary in her House. Blaise even created a list of her opinions on various topics, which was quickly circulated around. An excerpt read something like this--

  * Madam Puddifoot’s: “Ghastly.”
  * Divination class: “My tea leaves show that this is a colossal waste of time.”
  * Peeves: “I wish he were alive, so I could kill him myself.”
  * The Weird Sisters: “Can’t they just turn the microphone off?”
  * Pet rats: “I hope everyone who brings one of those things into the castle dies of plague.”
  * Ron Weasley’s dress robes: “Surprised I haven’t been Petrified just by looking at them.”
  * Colin Creevey: “Are you taking a fucking picture of me?" (cue sound of camera lens being smashed a few seconds later)



Unlike Astoria, Tracey had a good rapport with Slughorn once he took over as Head of Slytherin. How could she not respect a man who had a known habit of Transfiguring himself into furniture to avoid interacting with people he didn’t want to? Tracey liked that side of him much more than the one that he showed everyone outside Slytherin, constantly hobnobbing with the people of influence. Tracey understood the importance of connections, sure, but she would much rather strike a mutually beneficial bargain straightaway than go through any niceties. 

By the time the Carrows took over, Tracey wasn’t worried. She knew she could hold her own. It was easy for her to compartmentalise, partly due to her personality but also because of her upbringing. Pureblood culture valued the stiff upper lip, the ends justifying the means, and keeping mum about what went on behind closed doors. The Greengrass girls were the most spoilt out of their group, while Draco’s father liked to make a big show of spending lavishly on him but expected strict obedience in return. On the other end of the spectrum were the Carrow twins (born into an entire family of sociopaths) and Theo. The Carrows never crossed the line of acceptability with their own offspring, though; they just considered torturing other people to be a family bonding activity. Nott Senior was the worst by far, because it seemed he found gratification in brutally punishing his own son. It was fucked up beyond belief. Tracey considered herself to be somewhere in the middle--it was just a part of growing up pureblood, right? It was better than being contaminated by those filthy blood traitors and Mudbloods. It had to be.

So she did what was required of her that year, and never showed a sign of weakness. But she started to worry about her friends, especially if the Dark Lord prevailed. The only one she really wasn’t concerned about was Blaise. He was all talk, playing the game, and then good at making himself scarce when it was time for action. Astoria was pissed half the time and an emotional wreck the other half. Pansy was very good at attacking people first before they could get wise to her own insecurities. But how long could she keep up that front? Daph, Theo, and Draco could do the spells but didn’t always mean them. Greg, Vince, and Millicent did mean the spells but couldn’t always do them.

She had lost her temper on those last three shortly before the Battle of Hogwarts, and Tracey still privately blamed herself for what happened after. “If you can’t keep up now, what are you going to do when the Dark Lord is victorious? Either kill or be killed, get that through your heads,” she had coldly admonished them one night in the common room. How firmly had she planted that idea? If they were told to worry about measuring up in a world where the Dark Lord ruled, no wonder Millie and Greg reckoned it wasn’t worth it to stick around when the Light prevailed. Crabbe wasn’t as lucky as Draco or the others. So maybe Tracey’s prediction hadn’t been that far off, and she knew it was _so_ fucked up that she didn’t feel much besides a bit of satisfaction about being right. Instead of grieving for her housemates she grew up alongside. Especially when no one else in this post-war world was going to bother to grieve them. 

No, the absolute shock to her system came that night, far away from the castle. The phrase she kept using--the only coherent thought she could really express--was “my entire life has been a lie.” No need to bury her sexual orientation now, because there was no need to fulfill her parents’ expectation of at least one child. Because she wasn’t a continuation of the pureblood Davis line after all. She would never really know if her parents’ scheme to steal a Muggleborn child and pass her off as their own was anything more than a last-ditch effort to tick a box off the list of _things proper purebloods do_. She was fortunate that the whole thing hadn’t been exposed sooner, or it would have been her fleeing for her life from the Ministry and Death Eaters. 

Following her utter meltdown in the aftermath of the battle, where she found herself in the unfathomable position of being comforted by Alicia Spinnet and her mates, she was tipped off that some older Slytherins were gathered outside--away from the suspicious glances of those on the winning side. She approached them with her wand already drawn, ready to defend herself. “I don’t know if you’ve heard the news yet,” she intoned, “but I’m turns out I’m not actually Tracey Davis; I’m Tracey the illegally adopted Mudblood. Lovely to meet you.”

No one said anything, and Tracey couldn’t get an accurate read off their expressions. She felt a sharp pang in her chest, and was fighting to make her legs work, to get her _out of here_. Then Pansy jumped up and hugged her fiercely, telling Tracey she was just so glad she didn’t lose her, too, and the school’s ice queen and first class bitch cried together for the first time in their friendship. Then Astoria handed her a bottle of wine and she joined the literal circle of her friends on the grass. “Just don’t start lecturing us on morality like Granger,” Draco said, making her laugh softly. “No fucking chance, Malfoy,” she said, and he reached over and squeezed her shoulder affectionately. Tracey breathed a sigh of relief; he was the one she was most worried about and now he had proved that she was accepted. She had no idea how she was going to navigate this upside-down post-war world, but she was still a Slytherin. That would never change. 

Her friends were the only reason Tracey came back to school to repeat the year; these friendships were the only aspect of her life that remained constant. Yes, she wanted to pursue a career in Arithmancy, specialising in bridging magical and mathematical concepts. She could have easily finished that NEWT through correspondence and gone straight into research, though. It was her mum, her actual mum, who convinced her she was making the right decision going back to Hogwarts. Tracey had omitted a great deal of details about her school years at first, but finally confessed to her birth parents how she and her friends had been raised with such virulent prejudice and hatred--and acted it out on fellow students. Thank Merlin, they still _wanted_ her despite everything. It was a difficult feeling to explain; it satisfied this longing she’d been living with for years, but never understood. 

So she thought she was dealing with all of this well enough that she could stay under the radar (a new Muggle expression she learnt from her dad) this year. Apparently not, because in December she became the Hufflepuffs’ _project_. Just when she thought her life couldn’t get any weirder.


	2. Two

Tracey had reached a new level of pathetic three weeks before the Christmas break, when Draco found her having a (scheduled, naturally) breakdown in an empty classroom and pulled her into a brief, awkward hug. 

“Ugh, Greengrass is having such an influence on you,” Tracey told him.

“I know. I’d do whatever she wanted at this point. It’s horrifying. Should have seen it coming though; you know she gives tutorials on her famous “Five Point Plan For Getting Anything You Desire” to the first-years now? ABCDE--”

“--Allure, Bribe, Cry, Demand, Extort,” Tracey rattled off. They shared a small smile. 

“I’m posh, by the way. In the Muggle world,” she blurted out after the silence grew too uncomfortable for her. “After I...took my leave as it were, they devoted themselves to their careers. My parents have rather boring jobs to us, but the salaries are very good. Better than the Davises, who were solidly middle class despite grander aspirations.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Also, I’m one-quarter Welsh, who knew.”

“Well that does it. I can no longer associate with the likes of you, Trace.”

That got some real laughter out of her, but it soon died down.

“My parents bought me a Muggle car, just because I asked for it. Took it out by myself, got on the M4. Drove for miles, no regard for the speed limit. Nearly crashed the thing. And they weren’t even that angry. Salazar, can you imagine how your father would have reacted had you done whatever the Wizarding equivalent of that is?”

He grimaced, then hesitated before he let the words tumble out. “I’d be more frightened by what the Davises would have done.”

“No, don’t you apologise. It’s the truth. I refuse to sugarcoat it.”

He nodded, his eyes understanding. But Tracey couldn’t stand to look so weak in front of him, so she gave an excuse about needing to revise for Transfiguration that very minute.

She was reaching for the door handle, when it instead opened from the other side. Hannah Abbott gave a little “oop” of surprise, and Tracey swore internally because she knew her eyes were still red-rimmed from crying. The last thing she wanted right now was Hufflepuff intervention. 

“Alright, Da--sorry--Wilson, Malfoy,” the girl said tentatively.

The two Slytherins nodded in response.

“Wish the holidays would get here sooner, feels like it's dragging. Planning on staying here over Christmas?”

Draco snorted. “We’ll be here, but Tracey doesn’t  _ do  _ Christmas.”

“What? You must be having me on.”

“No,” Tracey said. “What’s the point? It takes me all of five seconds to open an envelope with a Gringotts deposit slip for my personal account. Ha, won’t even be getting that this year, though.”

Hannah looked as if someone had told her that her cat had just died. 

Draco looked at his watch, “I’ll see you later, Trace. Good luck,” he said to Hannah on his way out. 

“I thought you spent the summer with your birth parents,” the Hufflepuff said.

“I did. I just...may have told them that it was mandatory to stay at school for Christmas break.”

“But why?”

“Because I hate seeing them all sappy, and I hate how people get all childish about an arbitrary day of the year, and I hate thinking about the Davises. So I bloody hate Christmas.”

“Okay, I don’t know much about you snakes, but I know this can’t be a Slytherin thing. I remember how excited Daphne used to get.”

“It’s not, it’s a Tracey thing. I’m sure some of my mates will participate in the  _ festivities _ ,” she said like the word was causing a bad taste in her mouth. “I’ll have a long lie-in and probably abuse some substances heavily, and that’s about it.”

“You’ve never wanted to have a real  Christmas?” 

Merlin, what was with these Hufflepuffs and their perpetual eagerness and optimism?

“No, thank you,” Tracey said testily. “And I don’t want to argue about this with you.”

“Oh, Tracey,” Hannah said, the empathy radiating off of her and making Tracey extremely uncomfortable. “I see your sadness when you think no one else is looking.”

“Then I really have been slipping up lately.”

“Was it that bad all the time, with your parents? Like you said on the first day back at school?”

“Don’t pity me when I’ve shown nothing but hatred towards you and your mates.”

“Forgiveness isn’t yours to give, Tracey. Stop deflecting.”

Tracey paused, trying to find the words. “Listen, you have to understand pureblood culture, alright? I thought it was more universal, but Longbottom showed me otherwise. I suppose it’s really a pureblood supremacist thing. In nearly all the families I grew up around, backchat earned you a Stinging Hex, or a smack across the face. Some parents, like mine, were stricter than others. It’s just how it is. You people are being far too dramatic about it.” 

“I don’t care how it’s been justified; it’s not right.”

“Salazar, you sound like Astoria. Go whinge to her about it. I’m busy,” Tracey said dismissively, then stormed out of the classroom.

That’s when it started, Tracey realised later. The badgers probably began plotting as soon as Hannah spilled her guts to the others in her year. Conspiracies were part of the Slytherin brand, for Merlin’s sake. It would bother her for years that she hadn’t caught on sooner.

Anyway, the first incident occurred when Justin Finch-Fletchley approached her at the Slytherin table during breakfast. “Wassup, my Mudblood,” he greeted her in a bad American accent, and handed her a mug of steaming hot chocolate, whipped cream piled high and adorned with sparkling hundreds-and-thousands as well as red and green syrups. Astoria was practically falling over in laughter, while Draco lifted a hand to cover his eyes in an expression of vicarious embarrassment. Tracey was told her own expression was priceless. 

“Swear you’ll never say that again,” she said flatly. Then due to an inexplicable lack of restraint, she took a sip. “Not bad,” she proclaimed.

Justin looked slightly dejected until Blaise announced loudly, “Tracey just said that garishly decorated hot chocolate was ‘not bad,’ can you believe it? I think I’ll buy a lottery ticket today!” The Slytherins laughed, and Pansy seemed like she was actually considering it for a moment. Tracey noticed that Justin sent his table a fist pump of excitement on his way back.

Then Hannah Abbott plunked down next to her in the upper-years’ common room during a free period with more of that hot chocolate and offered to paint her fingernails. Tracey studied the bottle of emerald green nail polish and deemed it “acceptable.” Hannah blabbed on about random topics the whole time, but she wasn’t nearly as insufferable as Tracey had expected her to be. The Slytherin ice queen found herself smiling around non-Housemates throughout the day. Odd.

Ernie Macmillan was next up. Tracey had been taking pains to avoid him in the castle. He had gotten it particularly bad from the Carrows, while she had coolly watched. He was born into a Sacred Twenty-Eight family, and yet he stood up for the Muggleborns despite the beatings. Stood up for  _ her _ , although no one had any idea at the time. And there he was, a year later, bringing her tea with the right amount of milk and helping her with a Muggle Studies essay. Ernie was patient with her, making sure she understood the concepts. He listened to her tell a few stories about her dad, because that boy truly  _ liked _ Muggles rather than simply not wanting to wipe them off the face of the earth. Tracey had been classifying her birth parents as different, because they were hers, while still holding onto less than charitable views about the majority of Muggles. But Ernie had never even met her dad. Tracey’s essay came back with full marks.

At this point, Tracey had figured out that the Hufflepuffs had taken her case on. They were always saying hello to her in the hallways and starting to be slightly warmer than merely civil to her Slytherin mates when they were around her. So she knew who would come next, and it caused her anxiety, despite that being another of the things Tracey didn’t  _ do _ . 

She had begun to fancy Megan Jones in fourth year. Megan went to the States to visit her Muggle cousins over summer hols and came back with loads of pop culture knowledge, breasts, a new haircut, and an abundance of confidence. Tracey noticed all of it. But not only was Megan a Hufflepuff, she was a fucking half-blood. She should be disgusted by her, not thinking about the two of them alone in an empty hallway, or worse, in Tracey’s bed. These feelings were unnatural and shameful. So she focused her efforts on despising the rest of the impure masses even more. 

Megan offered her a special blend of herbal tea that was supposed to boost her spirits or whatever, and Merlin damn it, it was really good from the first sip. They struck up a conversation, and then Megan did something Tracey had pictured in her head for years. She asked her to go to Hogsmeade with her. No, this couldn’t be real. This had to be a trick.

“Right, very funny, now go laugh about this with your mates.”

“I’m not joking.”

“You. Want to go to Hogsmeade. With me. Like...like a date.”

“Would you say yes if I did?” Megan’s eyes were earnest, and Tracey’s heart was racing. She smoothed her skirt with slightly shaking hands.

“Honestly, what do you all want from me? Why do you keep acting in such a bizarre manner and offering me hot beverages? Why would you ask me out? Why would you want anything to do with me?”

“You’re clever, and I’ve wanted to tell you that you were pretty for awhile,” she said. “I want to get to know you, if you’ll let me.”

“I don’t even know who I am anymore,” Tracey said, her voice breaking. “You know what Mother’s specialty was? Propaganda. She spent hundreds of hours writing thousands of words about how half-bloods and Muggle-borns were inferior, defective, worthless. While the whole time, she knew the truth about me. While she watched me learn to hate, learn to torment others for their supposed deficiencies. Can’t even look at myself in the mirror some days.”

“I see you,” Megan said softly, and took her hand.

Their gazes met, and Tracey leaned in, Megan following suit. Her lips crashed against Tracey’s, and it was perfect. Until Tracey gave into heaving sobs, burying her head into the other girl’s shoulder. Megan held her, like she was something valuable. Special. 

“I hadn’t planned the first kiss to go like that,” Tracey said apologetically, when she was done crying. 

“It’s a good reason to practise some more,” Megan replied.

“I’m beginning to appreciate the Hufflepuff work ethic,” said Tracey, moving in to kiss her again. 

Pansy found them still snogging twenty minutes later. “I really should buy a lottery ticket today,” she remarked. “Well done, Jones, excellent choice. But if you hurt her I will kill you.”

“This is going to ruin your day, but you no longer intimidate me, Parkinson.”

“Wow, you Hufflepuffs have developed quite the rebellious streak. I approve.” Tracey knew she was speaking more broadly about the situation, and all of it made her ridiculously happy.

So Tracey went on that date, and she started saying hello back to the Hufflepuffs in the halls. She even joined them for breakfast one morning. 

The night before the train left, the four Hufflepuffs cornered Tracey with wrapped presents. She blinked rapidly, eyes misty.

“Don’t expect this to become a habit,” she advised them sharply. Then she gave each one of them a quick hug, thanking them for the gifts. 

She would still probably spend the twenty-fifth sleeping, reading a good Auror novel, and getting wasted in the Slytherin dorms. But maybe Christmas was something Tracey Wilson could  _ do _ . 

Maybe Tracey could do a lot more than she used to believe she could.


End file.
